Spasmically Perfect – Page 3 – If You Don't Like The View, Change Your Angle

My most favorite jewellery piece

Sometimes post ideas pop out of nowhere. Like right now. I was on the way to take a shower after another beautiful hot day in Toronto. Certain things have to come off first and before you think of anything that isn’t appropriate for children, well, I didn’t get there.

The first things I removed were my earrings and necklace. I don’t know why but today they caught my attention and made me smile. They have been in my possession for 17 years now and it is a true miracle that still in their original condition. I haven’t lost any of the earrings or the earring backs nor has the necklace ever broken.They proved me wrong.

My mind travels back to that late summer afternoon where my Mum and I were shopping on the famous Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich. I am not sure whether Audrey Hepburn had anything to do with it but one of my Mother’s most favorite stores is the one that wraps its products in fancy turquoise boxes and ties a white ribbon around them. So it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary that the two of us found ourselves standing outside of Tiffany’s that day.

“Let’s go in”, she surprised me with her spontaneous resolve. At 19 having grown up with plenty to keep me safe, fed, decently dressed but not much more than that, a store like Tiffany’s where you actually had to ring the bell to be let in, shattered my feeble confidence. Not that a 19 year old would admit that.

“It’s neither your nor my birthday and Christmas is a long way away. So without anything to celebrate, I am really not sure why you need to go tempt yourself”, I spoiled her enthusiasm. Or so I thought.

“Actually, there is something to celebrate. You have just graduated and earned your business degree. I think it is time, you bought yourself a nice piece of jewellery.”

Before I could even start to utter any of the objections my mind had lined up, she had already rang the bell and an impeccably dressed gentleman in a suit let us in. The one thing scarier than following my Mum was causing a scene by refusing to enter. Once inside my Mother started looking at the display cases while I quickly assessed how many people recognized us being completely out of place. Well, actually, my Mother is never out of place, if anybody it was me in jeans and a well worn blouse. Then I remembered the story of the billionaire that got kicked out of a luxury car dealership because the sales rep mistook his raggedy look for a lack of finances. The billionaire went across the street and bought two cars with a six digit price tag each, waving to the first sales guy as he drove one of them off the lot.

I held my head up high and focused on the display cases.
“Mum, I am not going to buy anything in here!”, I whispered. “I don’t need any jewellery, I don’t even like it, and I definitely cannot justify spending that amount of money.”
“You are worse than your father”, she grumbled. “You are a young lady now, a professional and need to wear appropriate jewellery.”
There was no point in holding up my Movado watch which I had been given for my confirmation. I absolutely hated when she started playing the ‘lady’ card, if there was something very clear about my persona is that I was not a ‘lady’. I did not want to be. I wanted to be confident, smart and naturally beautiful without having to rely on make-up, clothes and jewellery to be accepted.

Nowadays that mindset makes me grin. It was true on a theoretical level however as an insecure teenager, one that was teased for being overweight, too tall and overall a bit of a slob, that mindset was shallower than the sea of Azov. But I defended it with all my might.

My mother kept pointing out pieces and I stayed stubborn. Then I saw the daisies. The golden daisies seemed simple, natural, beautiful and sunny all at the same time. Of course it didn’t take my mother one wasted breath to ask one of the sales ladies to try them on. Within no time I had daisies in my ears and one around my neck.

Half an hour later we were standing back outside the store, my Mum with a proud smile on her face, myself with horror written all over mine.
“I really don’t want these. Do you know how many starving children I can feed with this money? I haven’t bought anything with this price tag in my life and surely nothing as trivial as jewellery. Do you know how few people in this world can actually afford such a purchase? This is not me, this is you. I am taking them back! On top of everything else I constantly loose stuff and I can’t afford loosing these!”

My mother had the upper hand that day. It was one of the last times. Ask her today and she’ll confirm that I am as stubborn as ever when it comes to spending money on ‘ladylike’ things. Of course that is her opinion. As far as I am concerned, I don’t want to be a lady but prefer confident, smart and naturally beautiful woman. I still splurge on beauty once in a while. But rarely and never because I have to. I have never again bought anything at Tiffany’s, but I am not opposed to someday doing so again for myself or anybody else if the occasion is right.

I still love my daisies. Not because they are Tiffany nor because Paloma Picasso designed them (although I do think that’s kind of cool). My mother gave me a tear shaped Tiffany necklace a few years later for another celebration. I love that one too.

But not as much as my daisies. Apart from being beautifully happy, they remind me of my first, rather painful, experience with the concept of ‘being worth it’. And because they to this day they remind me of how fortunate I am and not to take it for granted.

The Tipping App

Last year Apple was awarded the trademark for the line “there’s an app for that”, a fact that a) makes me wonder whether I need to pay to use it in my post and b) gets me a little uneasy since it is just another sentence that could happen easily in a modern conversation. Corporations should not be allowed to own basic rights. But that’s a whole other story. But lets start this story.

My friend Pascal and I were just finishing up our drinks on a lakeside patio. The hostess brings by the bill, which my dear friend takes immediate charge of. We are off to a good start as he presents his credit card and moments later receives the signature slip. Then he hesitates.

I am not surprised. Writing down the tip amount is an art form, one that cannot be rushed if done properly. The line between the waiter’s lively-hood and my service satisfaction level is thin, being rendered even more complicated by a certain social standard expectation.

But in this case I read Pascal’s hesitation wrong. He is not concerned about any of those questions but only breaks to reach for his Iphone. He answers my inquisitive look with a bright smile:

“I have an app for that”.

Now I am confused, convinced that I must have missed part of the conversation. He cannot be talking about a tipping app?

He shows me the screen on which I recognize the image of an old fashion handwritten bill. Are you kidding me? How can an app make such an intricate decision? It isn’t a matter of just calculating 10 or 15 per cent. Surely.

One minute goes by and then the next. His eyes glued to his phone, he suddenly asks:
“How much is 47 plus 16? ”

Ok, so let me get this straight: You have an app for calculating the tip amount yet you still need to ask me to do basic math? At this point I have no idea what this app actually does do, considering that the only part which I maybe would find helpful still needs to be done in my own head. I wait another minute, a second one and then finally Pascal and his Iphone seem to have arrived at a number.

Had we done it by ourselves, we would have been home by now. Half amused, half worried I watch his big smile as he starts scribbling the result on the bill. Then:

“Sorry how much did you say? 63?”

I nod and suddenly feel proud. You may have an app for that but I can actually manage without it. God it feels empowering to beat technology once in a while!

As fresh as possible and a committment to true Italian pizza

I have just got back from a trip to Europe, mostly Italy. Its a country that I have been, growing up in Switzerland, familiar with but as an adult had not yet explored.

Now I am back and like any traveler who lives alone, was greeted by a gapingly empty fridge and pantry. Nothing else left to do than to head to the grocery store and pack the cart.

I have eaten well in Italy (not surprisingly after all it is ITALY!), and by that I am not only referring to the delicious food but more so to the way I ate. I actually ignored the local custom of eating antipasti, primi, secondi, and dolci all at once. Rather than that, I snacked on fresh fruit and other smaller specialties and when dining in a restaurant ordered either a pasta dish, a pizza, or fish with vegetables. I did have some sweets, mostly following my nose into pastry shops or lining up for a gelato once in a while. But all within reason.

My stomach and my body seemed to thank me for it. I felt great, never stuffed, never tired and had lots of energy.

So now I am back in Canada, not the US, but still very heavy in its eating style. And I’ve made a commitment to continue with my choice of foods. Its not about dieting here, but more about buying fresh and local, and knowing what I am putting into my body while remembering the size of my stomach.

Another vow I made while still in Rome and pushing the second bite of Gorgonzola Pizza into my mouth was not to ever ‘insult’ my palate with a North American version of pizza ever again. I’ll eat home made or order one from a REAL Italian restaurant but the PizzaPizza, 241, Domino’s or any other of those chains have just lost me as a customer. Do you know that you can eat an entire 14inch Italian pizza and not feel stuffed? The dough is so thin, the toppings so efficient that you get all the satisfaction without the clogging.

As I unpack my grocery bags it smells of basil, ripe tomatoes, sweet nectarines and fresh fish. I can’t wait to cook lunch. I can’t wait to sprinkle fresh dill and lemon juice on the perch, can’t wait to bite into the al dente green beans with a spoon full of roasted garlic on top. I am no great cook by any means, but I do know how to love and appreciate food.

And that is keeping it as fresh and simple as possible.

Buon appetito!

Inspiring Fog

: ‘Foggy view; @spasmicallyperfect

The weather channel had already informed me of the charming fact that this week of April was going to present itself from its saddest side, shedding constant tears and hiding away in thick Spring fog. So it was no surprise this morning that my eyes could not see passed the balcony and my ears picked up the sound of rolling tires on wet roads.

Just when I resigned myself to the fact that it was going to be another day of crummy weather, I realized something else.

Staring out the window, without a single speck of identifying landscape the world seems like a gigantic blank canvas.

I smile.

I have a whole day to create whatever world my heart desires!

Forgive me Father for I have sinned……

I try to be a good person, I really do. I also try to live by the 10 commandments, not necessarily because I am a devote Christian but because they make sense to me in my quest to be a good on the way to better person.

Sometimes I fail. Like I did today. I am writing the events down in an effort to a) clear my conscience and b) highlight the extenuating circumstances in hopes of forgiveness.

But let me start from the beginning by setting the scene. I have just returned home, outside the night has fallen and so I turn on lights as I enter the apartment. At first everything seems fine and I am glad to be able to settle down on the couch and enjoy a movie.

Suddenly my sixth sense alerts me that something is wrong. I look up to the ceiling and there he is, about 2.5 feet above my head, a spider leisurely crawling along the ceiling towards the couch on which I plan to sit.

I jump to the side by which time my body has already covered itself in goosebumps. In shock I immediately realize two things: 1) I am still afraid of spiders. 2) The spider unfriendly winter months are over and it will take many moons until I will feel completely safe in my apartment again.

But I don’t have much time for he needs to be stopped before he is over the couch. I run to the broom closet and look for the most appropriate killing machine (preferable 100% lethal with a very long handle). Had we been in the strengthening power of daylight I might have had the courage to show mercy, but with the flickering lamp throwing a shadow doubling the size of the enemy, I have no choice. While staring at my options I quickly redress my feet with socks and the thickest soled shoes I own. Somehow that gives me an additional sense of confidence and power.

By the time I get back to the last sighting with my microfiber mop, the nightmare had just gotten bigger: he is no longer were he was and nowhere to be seen. There is only one thing worse than seeing a spider and that is loosing sight of it!

My mind starts racing, and like a spider profiler, I try and figure out where he could be gone to. First, I rule out him actually finishing his trek across the ceiling, last time I checked arachnoids don’t travel at warp speed. But he could have launched himself pretty much anywhere on his thread, they can fly through the air for miles that way!

Next realization: gravity works just the same. Without the force of the wind to propel him forward, he is too heavy to float all the way over to the couch (thank God). This still leaves the bike, potentially the table, bookshelf or the floor. Since he isn’t a
a black spider, he is a beast to spot against the floor or anywhere else for that matter.

Fuck, I think to myself, I won’t have a relaxed moment unless I lock myself in the bedroom and put a towel along the floor gap. I am frustrated with the fact that the spider-desensitization I performed on myself last summer has obviously lost its effectiveness. Now I will have to spend lots of energy gaining back the power over those otherwise quite useful creatures.

My eyes continue searching and there he is, hanging midway from the ceiling on his way down to the floor. Goosebumps at a max. I discard my first weapon of choice as there is too much possible room for error. I need a larger, heavier and flatter killing surface. Luckily he is taking his time rappelling.

I spot an LCBO Food and Drink magazine and grab it. Now I have to wait for exactly the right moment. He has to have fully landed on the floor. There! My sharp and trained mind knows exactly how to size up his crawling (yuuuuck!!!) speed against the altitude from which I have to drop the magazine to a) have lethal force and b) actually hit him. Slap!

I shiver. I quickly grab the broom and hit the mag a few times, not in uncontrolled rage but out of pure desperation and to avoid him actually reappearing from underneath. Then I move the mag and there he is, crumpled into a heap, which instantly gives me more goosebumps combined with a deep feeling of guilt. The poor guy never stood a chance, even though I have felt like the victim throughout this entire ordeal.

Immediately I ask his soul for forgiveness and send a prayer to spider heaven. A quick roll over with the smart vac and he is definitely gone.

I make it to the couch. Socks stay on for now as it just doesn’t feel as safe here anymore. Every time a hair tickles my neck, more goosebumps. It is going to be a long Spring, Summer and Fall.

Just Silence

Yearning for silence
like for an old friend
that offers comfort
’cause there is nothing
left to explain.

Silence that rains
ever so gently
over my body
and cutting out
all that doesn’t matter.

I’m getting better at it,
Silence that is,
despite the fire sirens
outside my window,
I can be quiet.

Like right now,
as the mad rush begins,
a new day filled
with duties and opportunities,
I feel my body breathe.

Like a cat,
curled up below
the fireplace
enjoying the comfort
of a late Spring day.

There is nothing else.

Just Silence.

Focus on Beauty

I started this blog as a testament to all the beauty there is in this world, that often we pass by without noticing, distracted by so many things. Beauty that sparkles, triggers smiles, is sometimes plain silly but always uplifting.

I’ve always believed that the world and life is what it is at any given point. It is us who decide how we want to interpret everything.

So, what was beautiful and what am I grateful to have witnessed today?

1.
A person very dear to me who herself as struggled very much over the last years, sent me a card for my birthday. But more than the pretty card, it was her new address on the back of the pink envelope that made me smile. The address represented the first mile marker in her new journey and it was fully hers and hers only. I know she has waited a very long time for her independence and sacrificed a lot to get it. Funny how she decided to settle down in YEA(H!)lmpton.

2.
“I miss you”.
Left on my voice-mail with the request to meet up soon.

3.
A great conversation with an old friend who I have neglected terribly over the years. Being able to still connect and share a part of our lives together, with the comfort of having known each other and our families for such a long time is priceless.

Looking for Flow

It is Spring time.
The birds have replaced the sun as my natural alarm clock.
Sweet greens are popping out everywhere.
I haven’t worn my winter coat in over a month.
So, the signs are clear. Life is flowing, as it always does, gently from one season into the next.

Then there is I. I feel to be lagging behind, still in some hibernating state, most comfortable on the couch inside, hiding away. But comfortable is a description that can only be applied when used in momentary segments. Right this moment, I am more comfortable sitting inside on the couch, I’d rather be inside than having to get up to be outside, just this split second. Then, the sum of all those ‘right this second’ suddenly turns into a day and so the evenings aren’t comfortable at all as I lament another day wasted.

“This would never happen if I were at work somewhere”, I think to myself. Yet, the whole reason why I left work was precisely that, days feeling wasted. So where does that leave me now?

Beauty — 'Beautiful flow' @Spasmically Perfect

I am looking for flow.

I know it exists, that it exists for me, for I have experienced it before. Granted, only sporadically, but still enough times to fully overpower any other moments of doubt, fear and darkness. This knowledge is what keeps me going, keeps me working while trying to balance letting go and being in control. Right now I am out of balance. I want to trust, I want to rid myself of these sky high expectations of mine that lead to nothing but disappointment where truly celebration should be present.

Hm, there it is again, that ever so thin band that threads through life, one side light the other dark, leaving only one question: which side do you want to focus on? Like a silk carpet that observed from one side reflects the light and from the other drowns it. We have the power to choose the side. Yet – both exist and isn’t that precisely why we are so fascinated by silk carpets, isn’t that precisely what makes them so unique and beautiful?

There is the flow.

The realization that things are truly what they need to be, that both sides indeed exist and create a third thing. As I, once again, remind myself that I don’t have to fight the darkness but instead embrace it, as part of the bigger more beautiful picture, the calm sets in again. My tight grip on the reigns of my life loosen, helping the blood flow through my entire body again.

I sit, quietly, on my couch.
I feel a gentle smile on my face.
I feel my soul opening up, my own sweet green popping through.

And then, suddenly,
I feel like taking my camera and heading down to the Lake.

Light and Shadow flow — 'Light and Shadow Flow' @Spasmically Perfect

Why writing keeps me sane

I remember learning how to write. I remember the lined note books, the pencils which I had to turn after every couple of letters to keep the line sharp. I remember the dents in my thumb, index and middle finger from gripping the hexagon shaped shaft too tightly. I remember the soothing noise of the graphite abrasion on the paper.

I loved all of it right from the start.

For a moment, I am back in that 7 year old mind who sat in her school bench – nose as close to the surface as possible, trying to have each A, then B, look exactly like the one at the beginning of row.

It wasn’t about the prospect of being able to write letters or stories. It was all about that one moment, that one letter, that next curve, about it not falling below the line, about it continuing in a smooth, fluid way. And it was about looking back at what I had accomplished; one, two, three lines of perfectly looking As. I was always very clear about what that perfect should look like. No matter what the teacher said. No matter what the parents said. No matter what anybody else said.

I remember my very first journal, a pink and blue lined, hardcover booklet with a lock and a tiny key. I wrote in it when I was upset, worried, scared, angry or – in love. I wrote to deal with my emotions that didn’t seem to be useful anywhere else.

Somewhere deep down I sensed early on that emotions, especially the negative ones, were dangerous. They could trigger actions that in one moment felt totally justified and shortly after left me to regretting them. I also realized quickly that there was always a bigger picture to what I could see, and that being aware of that bigger picture changed the way I felt about something. Writing down situations brought the other characters alive in a non- threatening way, with everybody expecting to be represented fairly.

Every time I wrote something my handwriting had to be impeccable. The selected words had to fit and flow nicely. I’d start out venting about an argument I just had with my sister but within minutes my focus shifted from my emotions to concentrating on the pen movement and thinking about how to most accurately document what just had happened.

I always felt better after I wrote. I don’t think that was only due to the shifting my focus. Being able to express safely whatever was bothering me surely helped as well. Today however, as I was working on a mosaic, wondering how I could possibly be so picky about every single tile and spend precious seconds moving it around, I realized how much I loved that feeling of focus – and how long I had loved it for.

It was like being back in that school bench, able to reduce the entire world around me to that one letter or in this case tile.

I realized that it is precisely that aspect of writing that makes it so precious to me. It allows me to slow down the crazy speed at which the world I live in moves. It allows me to gain control over emotions and thoughts, not by blindly venting on the page, but by trying to capture the true nature including all aspects of any given situation, word by word, line by line, letter by letter.

It allows me to keep my sanity.

Ode to Heather

I’ve been sitting before the blank “Add new Post” screen for what must have been 20 minutes now. Started writing a line, followed by a truckload of nothing to continue it.

I’ve jumped from writing about important causes, to jokes, to a possible haiku, to simply filling out another MeMe to get me writing something. I’ve visited other blogs to see whether anything sparked writing fire.

Nada. Niet. Nichts.

My head starts grumbling not so nice things.
“You do realise you haven’t followed through on December Views?”
Yes. I know.
“Talking about not following through, when’s the last time you went to the gym?”
Can’t remember.
Maybe I should just go to bed.
But now the argument in my head has started, the back and forth, the ‘be gentle’ against the ‘drill sergeant’ voice. Not again. Not again an evening of that.

Heather!
I need Heather!

Heather is my therapist. Typing that, after having made the decision not to use the word ‘shrink’ (where did that expression ever come from?), I realize, I don’t like the word therapist either. Not because it is a bad word, but because I don’t feel comfortable admitting that I am actually seeing a therapist. Not a physical one, no, one that specializes on mental issues….. there, it’s a fact…. I have mental issues.

I don’t feel that way. But I do currently need someone to talk to. Someone I actually pay to listen to me. Someone who has to help me untangle the mess my thoughts get themselves into. Like the one I am in right now.

“On a scale of 1 to 10….. “. That’s what Heather loves to ask. I remember the first time she posed that question. ‘Are you kidding me?!’ I thought. How on earth was I supposed to decide on a number describing where I was at right now? What about a 2? What if if I was wrong? What if exaggerated with giving her a 2? Did I really feel a 2 at every given time? Stress pearls appeared on my forehead. “It depends….. “, I started answering. I would not commit. Not even to a temporary assessment of my reality.

She eventually got me to jump, to decide, to risk making the life altering decision of picking a number on the scale of 1 to 10. You’d think we would have stopped there. But you don’t know Heather. She immediately followed up with the next brutal question:
“Which number do you need to be at to ___________ (fill in solution statement for problem)?” adding a suddenly easier
“What will it take to get you there?”

Now I love ‘On a scale of 1 to 10’. And I respect and adore Heather. I’ve been to psychologists before and I always came out knowing more about them then they did about me, leaving me with a very poor image of that entire profession. Too easy to see through their text book questions, and how they turned any answer I gave into their preconceived image of who people are. “What is the first memory you can remember in regards to your parents?” Give me a break! What does that have to do with anything?

Heather isn’t predictable that way. In fact, I never know what is going to escape her mouth next. Mind boggling. And she is smart. Very smart. She understands that no matter what she might be seeing, it never tells the whole story of who I am, what I am thinking. So smart, that when Spaz wants to go down a road that we’ve already established isn’t helpful, she won’t follow. No matter how good my sob story may sound.

Plus she is stubborn. More stubborn than I am, and I can be very stubborn. She is stubborn in such a beautiful, softly positive way, that I forget about winning. What sense is there in arguing with someone who just gets it, who is right? Not right in a universal way, right in a ‘there is no right or wrong’-kinda way.

Most of all, she is real. I have a very sensitive nose when it comes to realness. With Heather, I have a conversation with another wise, human being meanwhile I myself feel like one. Realizations and answers appear magically from within myself. That’s what Heather is, a Magician.

Unlike any other Magician, Heather reveals the secrets on how she triggers my inner voice, how she helps me hear the my own truth. This way I can start practicing for my life ‘without Heather’.

Like this moment. She wouldn’t be doing ‘on a scale of 1 to 10’. She would ask questions focusing on what went better, what I have accomplished ignoring the things I haven’t.

Me: “Well, I did not give up. I did write something.”
Heather: “How did you do that?”
Me: “I don’t know. I guess I just accepted what was happening and somehow used it as a base rather than using my entire energy to fight its existence”.
Heather: “Wow, isn’t that a powerful insight?”

I smile. Heather is not sitting opposite me this evening and yet she has planted the magical seed well enough to enable me harvest the fruit of my own wisdom without her presence. Instead of having another rotten evening, I am filled with light. I am filled with gratitude for having Heather in my life and pride in my own ability to learn.

Thank you Heather.